


FFXIV 2020 Daily Challenges

by raccaffiend



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dancer Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Exposition, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Introspection, M/M, Multi, Multi-Classed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Not Beta Read, Polyamorous Character, Prostitution, To Be Edited, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 19,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26262484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raccaffiend/pseuds/raccaffiend
Summary: https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/Daily writing collection for the FFXIVwrite 2020 challenge. Part of Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub collection.Tags and rating subject to change.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone, Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51
Collections: Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection, Final Fantasy Write Prompt Challenge 2020





	1. September 1: Crux

Prompt: Crux

Cennova knew of the weight of her presence affected those around her like gravity. It was something that she had become accustomed to, often catching those in her vicinity off guard due to her slight height, odd for an elezen. The heft of their eyes would fall on her, palpable. Sometimes it felt as if she couldn't breathe through the pressure.

She would meet their eyes, stare through them, her aether flaring as she pressed back their looks with her own. Inevitably, their resolve would falter, crack, crumble beneath green and gold. Then they looked away, taking that weight with them.

The company in which she found herself, though, seemed to be proving themselves exceptions to the truth she knew previously.

Alphinaud and Alisaie had met her with exuberance and challenge.

Minfilia had looked straight past her, seeing her future and communing with her goddess.

Thancred seemed to have a shield of jaded and easy charm that rendered him immune to her, and appeared to not truly see her at all at times through his quirked lips.

Tataru's sly eyes only lingered, asking questions that she would never voice. She worried more than most the others.

Y'shtola carefully skirted her, watching from afar and smiling her secret smile.

Yda never seemed to truly notice, focused within as she was; and Papalymo accepted her serenely before smiling quietly.

Urianger's gaze from beneath red lenses, betrayed that his intense interest was less than scientific. She could never seem to push him back from behind those shields, and so, his sight lingered tangibly like fingertips trailed up her spine.

Aymeric's icy blue was sharp and profound, rapt and cajoling -- she was the one who ended up looking away only to find herself returning to him, ebbing and flowing like tidewaters washing over her.

Haurchefant's stormy skies settled over her like hearthfire, warming her like molten chocolate that she wanted to melt into in return.

Estinien's terse nature belied the way he stared, unabashed and ardent, setting her aether aflame with his single-minded intensity.

Those who did not break under her deflection, she found, would be those to shatter her in ways she could not anticipate. This left her vulnerable and uncomfortable, both situations that she desperately endeavored to avoid, but somehow, never could. These people, she found, met and matched the full weight of her. The crux of the matter was that these were the people that she didn't want to look away.


	2. September 2: Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haurchefant goes somewhere to be alone, but it doesn't work out that way.

Prompt: Sway

Haurchefant couldn't say what woke him that night, or even if he'd slept a quarter bell after the day's events with poor Francel's accusation and the subsequent events. He gritted his teeth as he descended the stone steps in the courtyard, headed to the intercessory, intent on at least being somewhat productive if he wasn't going to be resting. Frustration beyond measure crept and festered in his breast from being hamstrung by Ishgardian politics yet again. Worse, he was forced to rely on the admittedly comely adventurer and her mouthy young companion to clear his dear friend's name.

Witchdrop would haunt his waking nightmares for some time, but the vision of Cennova's serene face as she rained hellfire and rime down on those who would do them harm would forever be burned into his mind's eye. She was a solar flare against the bleak backdrop of Coerthas, blinding and beautiful as she cast, her crown of braids trailing down, whipping in the icy and aetherial winds.

If he were honest with himself, he owed her his life and more besides. Inquisitor Guillaime, he owed a swift kick to the mouth, he thought blackly.

His invitation to rest for the night was swiftly accepted. Cennova had truly gone out of her way to help Francel, and if she were to lay her sights on the Stone Vigil on the morrow, it would be in her best interests to be rested as well as possible. It was the least he could do before relinquishing the bit of light and warmth that Cennova had brought with her to Dragonhead, reminding him of the days before Dalamud descended.

The sight that greeted him when he pushed the door to the intercessory open stole the wind from his lungs.

Where he had expected embers in the hearth, there was a fire that fairly roared, and the silhouette arched in a pose before it was blinding: Cennova, her braids undone, an aureate waterfall of silk flowing over her shoulders and down her bare back.

She didn't immediately notice him at the door, and he watched her body morph from one dance pose to the next in an obviously well-practiced series. The scarves she wore wrapped and twisted intricately around her torso and hips were the color of a sunset sky on fire, captured, tied, and trailing as she moved to a beat that sounded in only her ears.

Her eyes were closed, and he finally had to breathe in, lest he black out and miss any of the dream playing itself out before his Halone-blessed eyes.

Her bare feet, jewelled bands around the ankles, pounded in a primitive rhythm, rolling her hips up and around. Her chest arched in counterpoint, moving in a fluid wave as she spun in a slow circle, her arms wide around her before they crossed in front of her bound breasts and she _swayed_.

His knees buckled as hers did and he caught himself harshly against the heavy door, throwing it wide.

Haurchefant could taste his heart when her odd eyes, the colors of the sun and the same old growth green which stained her face from her cheek and forehead met his stormy gray. He felt his cheeks heat when she did not stop dancing, but instead reached a slender hand out to him.

"You're letting the heat out," she said, glancing down at her scant coverings and the thin sheen of sweat that covered her.

He dared not blink, but stepped inside the intercessory and closed the door behind him.


	3. September 3: Muster

Prompt: Muster

Aymeric's sharp breaths caught in her sensitive ears, ringing as they were from his shout as he emptied himself into her before sliding down into the cradle of her arms. Cennova pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, breathing harshly as she tried to collect her scattered wits.

A wry smile twisted Aymeric's plush lips as they trailed down Cen's face before coming to rest against the side of her throat. He tucked his face in against her damp skin. Cen's shaking fingers trailed up over his jawline, past the knife-edge of his ear, before threading into corkscrew curls created by his heat and sweat. Her breaths still came quickly as she held him to her with tenderest affection.

"So, do I pass muster?" Aymeric asked after long moments, his voice still a deep rasp. It was so quiet that she'd almost missed it under the thrumming of her heartbeat. She let out a tremulous, breathy laugh, stunned that he'd asked. 

Cen would have replied with a cheeky kiss and a grin had she not felt his breath catch at her response.

Was I good enough? Am I good enough? the Echo whispered to her in the next moment. She went still the truth of his question settled in her, bringing forth a sense of quiet dread for what it told her. Perhaps she was still too long.

"I must be crushing you," he said, then, voice breaking slightly as he started to pull away. Aymeric tried to rear up, off of her and out of her.

She would not have it. Not yet.

Cen folded her long legs around him, bracketing his hips with her pillowy thighs and locking her ankles at the small of his back, pulling him hard against her. One of his arms collapsed at the quick motion, knocking him off balance and half down onto her. A groaned breath punched out of her as his cock slid back home, deeper than expected, and a startled sound escaped him at the unexpected stab of pleasure. His head hung as he panted out harsh breaths once more, trying to collect himself.

"Aymeric," she said, a soft smile playing across bite-swollen lips. He looked up at her past his fringe, captured. She caught his hand with the fingers that were not still entrenched in his raven glory and pressed his wide palm against the breast that was not currently against his chest, completely eclipsing it. She leaned up slightly so her breath whispered past the long shell of his ear, "You are so far beyond muster that you have passed it by again. Thrice."

He shivered, but made no further moves to try and leave her; instead, he held her gaze as if he expected her to vanish before his eyes. Her thumb smoothed over the apple of his cheek, feeling his eyelashes sweep the tip when be blinked slowly, leaning into the caress with a murmur. His fingers stuttered along damp skin before they cupped and held her, his thumb coming to rest against her peaked nipple.

Cen hummed, rolling against him from beneath, reassuring him that she was still there. She smiled crookedly, her higher thought processes still buried in the discarded wraps and coverings that his clever fingers had relieved her of.

Then she pulled his face closer, watching him search her, blue and gold and green meeting. Their foreheads met, pressed, nuzzled; their breaths puffed out, mingled as she spoke softly into his parted lips. "You, Aymeric de Borel, are beyond imagining. You steal the very air from my lungs and my feet out from under me."

Then his wicked, hungry lips slanted over hers again like the ecstasy they'd found together minutes ago had never happened. His eyelids slammed shut with a strangled whine and she felt his entire body jerk when she tightened down around his cock, still mostly hard within her and now rallying, embracing it as she caused herself to shudder as well.

"Fury," he breathed into her kiss, trailing fire up her sides with his fingertips, rolling his hips and making her see worlds behind her eyes as they began again. "How are you real?"


	4. September 4 & 5: Clinch & Matter-of-Fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming to an agreement.

September 4  
Prompt: Clinch

September 5  
Prompt: Matter of Fact

The letter requesting her presence at Borel Manor at her earliest convenience was unexpected at best. Rather than issue a reply, she'd left straight away after informing Tataru of her whereabouts via linkpearl. It felt like months since Cen had a chance to catch her breath, and whatever she was being summoned for was just another in a long line of duties and requests. She was feeling rather frayed around the edges and was looking forward to the possibility of few days not running herself ragged after she handled whatever problem the Lord Commander of Ishgard needed her assistance with.

It was well past sunset by the time she reached Ishgard's Foundation. Snow was beginning to cake onto her cloak as she took the ramps and stairways to The Pillars. The snow fell hard in the streets, the winds whipping in a vortex between the rows of buildings rather than the cutting sweep of the Steps of Faith.

Cen had not sent ahead word of her arrival, but she had resolved to not wake the household if she saw no lights through the windows. Should the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights be unavailable, a hot meal awaited her at The Forgotten Knight, followed by a plush bed at Cloud Nine. Borel Manor finally came into view from past the Athenaeum Astrologicum and she breathed a sigh of relief to see that there was still light coming from inside the manor. Perhaps she would thaw out before she had to be on her way again.

She rapped softly on the door, shivering, and heard footsteps from inside shortly after. The startled storm blue eyes of Haurchefant Graystone met hers as the door opened to her. A grin swept his face mere moments later and she was ushered bodily inside, the door swiftly closed and decisively latched behind her.

"Cennova! What a splendid surprise! Come in, come in! Aymeric will be positively overjoyed to see you. I daresay he's been waiting," he said, sweeping her cloak off of her shoulders and onto a rack near the brazier to dry before she could issue a sound. Long arms enfolded her into soft linen, calloused fingers sweeping back the hood of her casting robes, and he pressed a swift kiss to the crown of her head. He was careful not to muss the braids hiding golden horns any further than the hood and her journey had already done. She sighed and returned Haurchefant's embrace, breathing him in. Leather, steel, cocoa, and something warm and different than what she was used to smelling on him.

"Not that I'm not delighted to see you, but what are you doing here?" she asked, her face pressed against the middle of his chest. "Am I interrupting? I can fair return in the morning."

"No, darling, you're not interrupting. A bell ago, perhaps," he commented with a Cheshire cat grin and soft eyes dancing in mirth and, dare she say it, happiness. She noticed his hair was damp, fluffing up a bit around the edges. He'd recently showered and unless she was sorely mistaken (she wasn't), she spied the purpling imprint and a puncture from sharp teeth peeking out from the loose neck of the woven tunic he wore. "Come wait in the parlor with me. Ah, ah!" he held up a finger to quell her attempted protest. "Aymeric should be back shortly, and I won't have you return to the storm outside without at least warming yourself by the fire. I insist."

Cen smirked, shaking her head, and kicked off her sodden boots in the breezeway, Haurchefant leading her insistently into the parlor where a fire blazed in the hearth. There was clearly no arguing with him, and she wasn't precisely eager to throw herself back into the snowy vortex that was beginning to rattle the stained glass windows of Borel Manor.

She sighed and took a seat sideways next to him on the settee, pulling the loose neck of the shirt down to inspect the bite. A quick flare of ice-aspected aether left her fingertips as frost-laden as her braids, and a pleased sigh escaped him as they stroked carefully against the bruise, his head falling back against the plush backing of the settee.

"Mayhap you should feed the Lord Commander before bedding him, Haurche. It seems he was hungry." Haurchefant's smirk broke into a wry grin, his eyes slipping closed easily.

"He always is," he said smugly, groaning as her aether flowed over his nerves like a slow flame.

Steps caught her ears and a muffled voice called out. "I heard someone calling at the door a moment ago. What was it about?"

Aymeric, a dark towel still rubbing over his wet hair, a pair of silken black pants embroidered with gold slung low on his hips and holding there with merely a prayer, barefoot and bare-chested, rounded the corner and froze at the sight of them on the cushions together. His blue topaz eyes going wide and his breath choking words in his throat.

"Oh, splendid, you're back," Haurchefant drawled, his back arching obscenely when Cen's aether arced and sealed the bite that Aymeric had left previously. "Fury, Cennova, now I know why you do not heal in public. That was positively delicious. You should try that when I'm inside you."

Aymeric made a noise like a starving man denied a feast laid out before him. "Lady Cennova?" He asked, gathering the shards of his voice, cracking as he flushed. Cen was enchanted to see that the blush went halfway down to his belly.

"I answered your summons as quickly as I was able, Ser Aymeric. My apologies the intrusion and the lateness of the hour," Cen said, standing up and leaving Haurchefant lounging against the settee's curved arm. "The details in the letter were scant, and I thought it best to determine directly if I was needed urgently." She fished in the folds of her robes, producing the letter, the distinctive gold and blue wax seal of House Borel broken in the center.

"I insisted that she come inside. Poor thing was half-frozen on your doorstep, Aymeric," Haurchefant drawled. He tucked long arms behind his head, watching his friends.

"Summons," Aymeric said softly, nonplussed, staring at the letter's broken seal as he reached for it. Cennova stepped closer to hand it to him and her eyes wandered without her consent to the spray of freckles across Aymeric's shoulders. "I sent no summons."

Time slowed, and the pieces fell together for Cen. "Haurchefant," she said slowly, turning from Aymeric to her silver fox smugly staring at the two of them from the couch. "What _have_ you been up to?"

"This is your hand," Aymeric said, looking over the letter. "You summoned Cennova on my behalf?" he asked.

"I called for her because I knew you would not, my friend. My apologies for the subterfuge, Cennova, but you are, indeed, needed urgently. Aymeric has something that he'd like to, despite his current dress situation, get off of his chest."

"Haurchefant, what are you doing?" Aymeric began to look panicked, his politic tongue deserting him.

"My brother in arms, my dearest friend, I can taste the jealousy and guilt on your tongue, and there is no reason for it. I have told you this before, but you either do not understand or do not believe me, so I have brought Cennova to us to clarify this point: I am hers and she is mine. But she is not _only_ mine, just as I am not _only_ hers." Haurchefant looked to her, prompting silently.

Cen turned back to Aymeric, who looked ready to either collapse or bolt when his eyes fell upon her. She met his gaze, held it for long moments. "While I would have preferred that Haurchefant handled this without the farce, I admit it effective if previous attempts have failed. Sit and voice your thoughts, Ser Aymeric. I would hear your mind fully on the situation in which we find ourselves."

A long moment went by, then Aymeric dropped onto the long couch nearest him, twisting the towel in his large hands as he leaned his elbows on his knees, curling over onto himself. Cen cast her eyes back to Haurchefant on the settee and motioned to him. He tossed her a cushion and she situated herself on it before Aymeric's bare feet, folding her legs beneath her. His breath caught as she set her hand gingerly on his knee. 

"Aymeric," she said softly, dropping the honorific. "Please tell me."

Their eyes met again, green and gold and blue, and he spoke.

"I didn't want to interfere with Haurchefant's affairs. It's been so long since I've seen him happy. I spoke no lies when I said that I followed your tales with an interest bordering on fascination. He has spoken highly of you from the first, and when he admitted to me that you returned that regard, I am shamed to admit that the jealousy I felt eclipsed the joy I felt for my friend.

"We spoke about it at length-- "

"After an amazingly passionate evening where I was the canvas upon which he painted his frustrations," Haurchefant interjected just to watch Aymeric's ears flush red again as he leveled a glare at the interruption, and Cen pressed her lips together to restrain a smile.

"-- but I feel as if I am dishonoring you by continuing to see Haurchefant, and I'm sorry that you came in to this situation blind."

Cennova considered his words, then replied in a measured voice, making sure she had his attention. "There is no dishonor in loving he who I love as well." At this, both men went still, not expecting quite those words said in that matter-of-fact tone.

"Cen?" her silver elezen said softly. She smiled, tossing a glance over her shoulder at Haurchefant, who looked back at her, wide-eyed.

"I find myself unwilling to relinquish your friend, Aymeric. Would you be so kind as to let me join you in keeping him?"

Aymeric's vision blurred for a moment, but he felt himself nodding as he blinked back tears. He couldn't force words past the tight knot in his throat. A heavy warmth settled next to him as his friend draped his long arms around his shoulders, tucking his head under his chin and holding him. Cen gently pulled the twisted towel out Aymeric's fingers, wrapping them instead around her hands.

She quirked an eyebrow at Haurchefant who was marveling at her from his perch on the couch, motioning to Aymeric who was focused solely on breathing. "My dearest friend," he began, breathing the words into the long shell of Aymeric's ear, "will you allow us the honor of keeping you as well?"

Cen rose to her knees in front of Aymeric as he nodded frantically, devoid of the words that were his sword and armor, and pressed the sweetest of first kisses to his soft lips as her lover slid in to nuzzle the crook of Aymeric's neck, dropping soft kisses as he went.

"Now that we have clinched this agreement regarding who is keeping whom, I propose we adjourn to the bedchambers to see if we can ruin Aymeric's bed set most thoroughly."

Haurchefant was not sure who flicked his forehead first.


	5. September 6: Space [random]

September 6  
Prompt: Space [random]

Throughout all her travels, Cennova had remained, effectively, without a home. Her possessions were kept on her person, strategically hidden along routes of escape in case of emergency, and stored with trusted retainers. Even at the Rising Stones and the Waking Sands before it, she kept no quarters, instead bunking in the common lodging.

Tataru had mentioned it once in her early days with the Scions, how she never noticed Cen sleeping anywhere but in the stacks, in the store room, in the common area, slumped and curled against a corner. Cen had smiled, shrugged, and had not offered an explanation; Tataru had apparently not thought to bring the topic up again.

Her adventuring found her with more than enough coin to repair and replace her previous sleeping kit, and later to stay in inns of various repute when they were available. Alphinaud invariably complained when they were sleeping under the stars. He had gotten more comfortable with it as time went on, but she would watch him attempting to surreptitiously identify shelters any time were away from "proper civilization". Cen was used to sleeping rough; this passive scanning was a skill that she had developed and honed over the years.

Even in her memories of the colony at Sharlayan, there was never a place that was hers and hers alone. The Scions shared lodging at Fortemps Manor as well. Even the territory around her person was shared space. At least that concession was a willing one. Mostly.

But when Aymeric led her down the bedroom hallway, Haurchefant trailing mere steps behind them, and opened the door just beyond that which led into his own quarters, motioning her inside, she had no words. Cen's bare feet sank into the plush fur rug spread across the room as she was bid. 

The room was done in creams and browns and greens, the smell of a fresh coat of paint meeting her while she took in the sight. A simple but comfortable-looking lounge couch and a low platform bearing a dressed mattress and more pillows than she had ever seen in one place in her life occupied the far wall between the windows, which streamed with the mid-morning sunlight. A bookshelf bearing the Encyclopaedia Eorzea was ensconced next to a reading nook opposite the hearth wall. Beyond a tasteful barrier, she saw, was a bath, dressing table, and a tall carved cabinet which matched the chest and bench at the foot of the bed.

Cen turned to Aymeric and Haurchefant, lost and without footing. "What is this?" she asked, sounding small and so young.

Haurchefant elbowed his friend, which spurred him into action, engrossed in her reaction as he was. Aymeric scrambled for a moment, patting his shirt pocket, then withdrawing a small ring with two cut keys. He took her hand, unresistant, and folded her fingers around the small collection.

"These chambers are yours if they please you. The door there," Aymeric motioned, "leads to my own chambers and will never be barred to you. It matters not our personal circumstances either now or in the future. I would have you know that you have a place here for as long as you desire it."

"While I have no similarly grand accommodations to offer you, my dear, I have cleared space for you in mine own chambers at Camp Dragonhead," Haurchefant offered.

She turned to them, tears in her eyes and her heart in her throat as their arms encircled her, pressing gently from all sides.

"When you think of home, we could want for nothing more than if your mind's eye brought this sight to you," Haurchefant breathed into her braids.

"You don't know what this means to me," she said, grinning so widely she thought her face would break, her voice tight through the tears that spilled over her cheeks. She wrapping her around their grasping arms and twisting her fingers through theirs to hold them tightly. "Thank you."


	6. September 7: Nonagenarian

September 7  
Prompt: Nonagenarian

Cen looked on as the Viera, unusual in the fact that he was a male out in public, allowed his companion, a Miqo'te who looked so very small next to him, to snuggle into the fine black and white fur of his ears without comment, turning oddly bright eyes down to the other man.

"Hey Callum. What do you want for your nameday?"

"I want you not to put ninety-seven sparklers on my sweetcake this time, Eiri."

Eiri laughed like the pealing of bells. "Well, your wish is my command. This year it'll be ninety-eight." She could hear the Viera's eyes roll as he sighed. The gesture was softened by the plainly affectionate look on his face.

Cen had known in theory that some races were much longer lived than some of the other races, but the Viera that sat across from her in the courtyard was sipping tea with a man who could have been his grandchild thrice over. Well. If genetics failed utterly.

She took a long drag of her cooling coffee, staring up into the canopy of trees above her and imagining what they'd seen during their long lives. She wondered, then, about men who planted seeds knowing full-well that they would never live to sit in the shade of the trees.

Cen's mind wandered to Emet-Selch and his Amaurotine ilk and she sighed, feeling for the creeping, all-encompassing desolation that had come on the heels of his fall. Best to keep planting acorns, just in case, as a testament that she once lived too.


	7. September 8: Clamor

September 8  
Prompt: Clamor

Cen disembarked the airship and stepped onto the streets of Ishgard, making her way home to Borel Manor. The bright mid-morning sun cast down on her, and the day was turning out to be quite pleasant, she thought as she shed her outer cloak to carry it in her arms.

Her traveling pack rucked up high on her back, dusty boots clicking against the smooth stones of the Pillars, she turned down the path past the Athenaeum Astrologicum. She spared a grin and a small wave to Jannequinard who was out enjoying the morning in the yard.

A shout and a cacophony of metal clattering caught her ear from beyond, and she looked up from the stones, ears peaked. She breathed deep, smelled the crackle of levin, and took off at a sharp clip toward the manor.

She used her key to open the manor, sliding the latch back quickly behind her. She tore up the main stairway, dropping her travel pack somewhere along the way, and fair sprinted across the manor to the courtyard gardens where the battle noises were coming from.

Cen's mouth went dry and she skidded to a halt before the stained glass windows and the door past the hothouse. She was momentarily blinded by malms and malms of bare skin, sweaty and gleaming in the morning light.

Aymeric and Estinien were locked in a clinch, Naegling screaming as it slid down the haft of Gae Bolg. Estinien pushed forward with a spin to attempt a shoulder-check and break the weapon lock. Aymeric twisted out of the lock and Estinien tumbled forward as the flat of Naegling caught him across the ass, barely catching himself before he ate dirt.

She barked a laugh before she could catch herself and saw Aymeric's eyes flick toward her. That moment was a moment too long. Estinien swept Gae Bolg low and knocked the Lord Commander's knees out from behind. The wide-eyed look of shock he gave before dropping like a stone was priceless, and she would cherish it forever in her mind's eye.

The door opened under her touch to reveal Haurchefant lounging under a small canopy, leaning back into a wide outdoor lounge, elegant legs crossed at the ankle and heels propped up on an ottoman stolen from Aymeric's study. A steaming mug of coffee was held in one hand, the other supporting a cherry pastry from the plate on the table next to him.

His stormy eyes gleamed with mischief as he watched the other two Elezen pull themselves to rights, then launch right back into their battle. Aymeric was being particularly vicious, keeping Estinien backpedaling.

"Estinien spilled the rest of Aymeric's birch syrup," he said simply, taking a sip of his drink.


	8. September 9: Lush

September 9  
Prompt: Lush

The book Cen had picked up to kill time was surprisingly engrossing, distracting her from the occasional clatter and 'shirr' of armor and chain mail being cleaned. Haurchefant had, after whisking her away from the courtyard and two recalcitrant children throwing a tantrum, made her a late breakfast. The clamor of Aymeric and Estinien's argument had since quieted, and the silence that prevailed in the rest of the manor was bordering on being suspicious.

It was too quiet.

She closed the book, a stray ribbon tucked within the pages to mark her place, and peeked out the window in her book.

"I think they've given up the ghost," she murmured, not seeing them in the courtyard anymore.

Haurchefant chuckled lowly. "No doubt they found more pleasurable pursuits to work out their anger. Battle does tend to rile Ishgardian blood."

"I know the feeling," she said, then turned her head to the window again to try and hide her face as it pinked.

"Oh?" He asked, eyebrows edging toward his hairline, all thoughts of armor maintenance abandoned. "Do tell," he entreated, leaning forward and settling his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

"Oh, hush," she chided, her cheeks still burning. "You know as well as I do --"

"I do know it well, but I would hear it from you nonetheless. What does our resident Warrior of Light get up to post-battle? What goes through that lovely head of yours?"

"Other than the horns?" she deflected, motioning to the broken golden crest above her temples.

Haurchefant was the picture of patience as he remained watching her, half a smile quirking his lips. The pose made it clear that he was not going to let this go that easily.

She glared at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes, relenting. "Fine," she groused. "It drives me absolutely spare to have to _talk_. There is always the insistence to reflect and analyze, when I would rather just be thoroughly railed until I am a wrecked mess and cannot physically think anymore, then to be fed, and put to bed. Coming out of battle, my mind is base."

"Delicious," her friend commented, his quirked smile pulling into a full grin. "Would that we were there to assist."

Cen laughed. "Would that you were, indeed. Mayhap that would expedite my return to feeling more like a person and less like a tangle of nerves on fire wanting nothing more than to sink my teeth into skin while being held down and taken from behind."

Haurchefant moved from his armor pile and came to sit behind her in the nook, fitting her between his legs. She leaned back against the long line of him, arching like a cat when his hands ran down her sides. Deft fingers tucked the golden spill of her hair behind her ruined ear and his lips descended on the crook of her neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss while he breathed her in.

"Bid me, and I will return you to yourself following all of your battles henceforth," he vowed cheerfully. "Which flesh would you have between your teeth though, love, if your lovely cunt is occupied from behind? Surely it cannot be the same being."

"Aymeric's lush arse," she responded with a breath and a devious smirk. Haurchefant barked a laugh over her collarbone as his hands wandered.

"Having partaken myself, I can confirm its lushness. He would fair lose that crafted composure that he maintains so carefully and become a beast beneath your teeth. A tiger by the tail, if you will." His fingers slipped deftly into her smallclothes, stroking her, and she keened, dropping her book completely. "Mayhap we'll have Estinien hold him down for you."

"I find myself looking forward to it," the dragoon's voice sounded from the doorway, and Haurchefant looked up from his distraction. Estinien was freshly washed and nearly dry, sporting nothing but the imprints of Aymeric's thrashing and a hungry look. "I'll go find the Lord Commander and... explain to him the plan."


	9. September 10: Avail

September 10  
Prompt: Avail

"We've unfortunately done this in the wrong order according to your preferences, but after a scare like the one you returned to, I believe you are due the indulgence," Haurchefant said softly, pouring water over her hair to rinse it. Cen lounged, lax and boneless in the water, having been scrubbed and petted and fawned over.

The sounds of Aymeric and Estinien moving things beyond the room divider filtered to her ears, but she paid it no mind, floating along as she was. Haurchefant's careful hands gathered her wet hair, squeezing the excess water from it before setting a towel to it. She groaned aloud at the first swipe of the wide-toothed brush over her scalp and heard Estinien fumble and swear.

Haurchefant chuckled, continuing his task, running his fingers and the brush through wet gold for long minutes before bundling it into a braid that left the horned crest the crown of her head free, in contrast to her usual style which concealed it.

He helped her and out of the water, wrapping her in a plush towel -- de Borel blue -- and set about drying her, watching the dance in her shifting hips as she moved to accommodate him. His lips followed the towel, just to feel her under them. He swiped down the middle of her chest, following a water droplet with his tongue as it rolled down her skin.

The terrycloth rasped against her skin, down her long legs. He knelt to attend to her ankle and she balanced herself, hands on his shoulders while he went low, lifting her foot to dry it. The other one followed, and he pressed a hot kiss to the inside of her knee while he held her foot aloft.

She felt him shudder as he breathed her in, taking the measure of her in with his nose. He smiled, hooking her leg over his shoulder, and held her eyes as he mouthed her inner thigh, starting at the knee and moving slowly toward her center, sucking gently her skin into his mouth. He left her reddened but not bruised.

Cen had nearly lost sight of his storm cloud eyes past her breasts when felt the rumble of his words against her. "I would avail myself to the feast I find before me."

"Please partake," she invited, a soft and lazy smile gifted to him as she buried the fingers of one hand low into his silver strands, her thumb stroking over the whorls of his sharp ear, fingertips cradling the base of his head.

Had he not wrapped a strong arm beneath the leg he held aloft and around to splay his hand at the small of her back, she would have toppled over when he pressed his face full into her cunt, sealing his mouth over its apex. The wail that escaped her when he began to feast like a man starved should have, by rights, brought an Inquisitor of the Holy See to the doors of Borel Manor due to one of their holy books bursting into flames.

"Fury, Haurchefant, are you killing her?" Aymeric asked, peeking his head around the divider. Through her haze, she saw his pupils blowing wide at the sight of Haurchefant joyfully at work.

Three quick steps brought Aymeric to her and he took her mouth with his own, sliding his arms around her from the side, holding her upright as she arched against his friend's face. Cen crumpled, shaking, when Haurchefant pressed fingers into her and hooked them forward gently at first, then digging in hard. He set a pace to overwhelm her, to wreck her.

Aymeric saw this and grinned, catching her bottom lip in his teeth, swiping his tongue across it before releasing it. "With your permission and at your request, my lady, we'd like to take you apart," he practically purred into her mouth, holding her up against gravity like she weighed nothing.

She whimpered when Haurchefant gave a particularly sharp twist of his hand and worked in another digit, pushing her further and humming in pleasure as her trembling became more pronounced. "Yes!" she hissed, shutting her eyes so tightly she saw stars. Her jaw dropped open and she gasped, curling in on herself as she came, locking down against Haurchefant's fingers, crushing them within her. Aymeric took her mouth again, kissing her while she shook.

"Will you bring her over to the bed before she falls over?" Estinien groused from the wider room beyond. "I want a turn."


	10. September 11: Ultracrepidarian

September 11  
Prompt: Ultracrepidarian

Cen suspected that Emmannellain was deep in his cups by the time he took the chair next to her at the banquet. The forest green and cream of her dress and corset, stitched in gold, glinted in the light of the hall as she smiled a greeting at him. Honoroit was nowhere to be seen; she wondered what errand he'd been sent on.

"Why is it that your dance card remains blank, old girl?" Restraining an eye roll, for certainly if she began she would never cease, Cen opted for a deep, measured breath.

"Darling 'Lain, if you continue referring to me as 'old girl', I shall begin to believe you have mistaken me for a horsebird." She caught his swimming blue eyes, so different from Haurchefant's, her heart twisting a bit.

"I was merely observing that you are an honored guest at this gathering," he said with a laugh. "You should be taking names and surrounded by your admirers."

"I was able to dissuade them early in the evening," she replied, taking a sip of the wine.

"Why ever would you do a thing like that? How ever will you snare a husband that way?" Cen choked on the wine, quickly setting the glass back down. Emmannellain was startled, quickly offering up a handkerchief to dry her lips as she regained her breath.

"Twelve, 'Lain, are you trying to kill me?"

"Not what I intended at all, Cennova. But I am certainly correct. You are a woman in possession of good fortunes, an official title thanks to House Fortemps, fame, youth, and what you lack in height, you make up for in looks. Surely you are in want of a husband."

"Extol more of my virtues, I pray thee," she said dryly. "You may yet be able to sell this horsebird at market provided the buyer does not mind the scars."

"Even horsebirds with scars can still be ridden." Cennova's forehead hit the table with a 'thunk' loud enough to draw attention. Aymeric, speaking with Alphinaud and a fellow Lord across the room, began to look concerned, turned slightly to be able to keep an eye on her, tossing covert glances her way. Alphinaud's eyes widened before casting his gaze somewhat frantically around for the youngest Fortemps' assistant.

"I regret this evening entirely," she muttered into the tablecloth.

"If you'd like, I can introduce you to the young Lords of the other high houses. Surely you'd have your pick of them. Oh, I could play matchmaker! I saw Stephanivien de Haillenarte around earlier, and I know you're acquainted. You seem to prefer to keep such," he paused, searching for the word, "questionable company, despite your station."

"Emmannellain, restrain yourself," she said sharply, taking the wine glass and draining it. "This is not the time, nor the place to discuss this. But know that I am not in the market either for a husband or on sale myself. Aside that, Stephanivien is spoken for."

"But House Fortemps sponsored you, and you are our ward! Securing a good marriage is part and parcel of being part of one of the high Ishgardian houses," he explained, aghast that she didn't seem to know this. "Stephanivien will be expected to produce legitimate heirs with a lady of noble bearing as he, himself, is the heir to House Hallienarte, just as Artoriel will as heir to House Fortemps. I am held to this custom as well. Mistresses are kept--"

"That is enough," Cen hissed, cutting him off with bared teeth sharper than they should be, levin sparking. "I don't expect you to understand or to agree with the company I keep, because you don't know me or from whence I came," she snapped. She gathered herself and rose imperiously from the table, staring daggers down at him, "But I expect that you will respect my wishes and not bring this up again either in my presence or away from it. The only son of your four esteemed high houses that I would have considered for marriage," Cen hissed, "was your brother. And you know damn well that I don't mean Artoriel."

She stormed past him, through the crowd that parted like water at her movement, curious eyes following her out of the hall.

Alphinaud gave chase where Aymeric could not, and found her in the armored arms of the Azure dragoon above one of the balconies.


	11. September 12: Tooth and Nail

September 12  
Prompt: Tooth and Nail

It had been too long, she thought as she wiped her sleeve across her face smearing blood that was not her own. Lucia was at her side blocking blows, Estinien raining death down from above, Alphinaud shielding and healing. Cennova's was a single-minded focus to tear this church out at the root, to burn and raze it if these twelve, these _Knights Most Holy_ , had touched her lover.

She would tear them apart, one at a time or all at once, it mattered not. They would die on fire, destroyed by tooth and nail.

Ishgard feared and revered dragons in the same breath. Let them now deal with she who has been accused of having dragon blood of her own. Her hoods were cast aside to reveal golden horns, one broken on the same side as the scar on her face and the oddly-coloured eye. Her casting robes were exchanged for a cloak of spun metal so fine and light that the shirr of her movement sounded like the whisper of a subtle blade. Levin engulfed her, sparking along her sleeves as her power ebbed and surged.

She barely stopped to cast, leaving a trail of bodies either dead or dying behind and around her.

Haurchefant gripped her forearm with his hand, locking eyes. He gave her a reassuring smile, speaking volumes with just that look and touch. They would go after Aymeric, and she should pursue the Knights. Have a care. Destroy them for what they've done. I love you.

She smiled back, kissing Haurchefant despite the gore that they were covered in, smiling grimly as he let go. Cen split from the group, leaving them to free Aymeric while she pursued the Holy See's warriors.

Beneath her rage, there was a yawning chasm of terror and gut-wrenching worry, for she knew that, even if all went to plan, this was a day that would shift paradigms and change lives.

She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.

Cen would see this through and see them answer for their crimes, the least of which was was to steal someone that was hers.


	12. September 13: Weapon [random] [placeholder]

September 13  
Prompt: Weapon [random] [placeholder]


	13. September 14: Part

September 14  
Prompt: Part

Cen shouldered Alphinaud's stares with as much dignity as she was able. That is to say, she ignored it completely. He'd gathered firewood under Cen's watchful eye at the behest of Estinien's concern, unbeknownst to him, and was able to avoid catastrophe only because of it.

Estinien, for his part, was gruff and on-edge due to the delay. Ysayle's presence and the abundance of dragonkin in the area wasn't exactly making it better. Cen sighed as the fire snapped, leaning back against her traveling pack, to peer up at the ocean of stars scattered above them. She felt a hand, bare of gauntlet and glove, come to rest beside her own, the smallest finger crossing her own.

Cen kept her face impassive, eyes trained on the sky, but gathered the barest whisper of fire-aspected aether into her fingertips, warming them, and his by proxy. Estinien was the most reticent of her lovers in asking for touch. The small gesture he'd just made, requesting reassurance, belied his uneasiness over the entire situation. But she managed to soften his countenance by just an ilm, and in that, she counted her victory.

Across the campfire, Alphinaud cleared his throat. Once. Again. Again.

"Is there aught I may assist with, Alphinaud?" Cen asked, her eyes not leaving the glitter of the sky above.

"Cennova, may we speak?"

"By all means."

"In private?"

She sighed, but did not move. "Alphinaud, I am weary, but right here, right now, I am warm and mostly comfortable. If you would speak, I would hear you as I am. Plainly."

Alphinaud looked to Estinien as if concerned that he would be skewered on Gae Bolg from across the fire. If anything, the brief quirk of sly lips revealed his amusement.

"Very well," he conceded, steeling himself and searching for his words. "Mayhap I am incorrect," he began, but by the tone in his voice, he was certain he was not. "But I was under the assumption that you and Lord Haurchefant were... involved." He cautiously glanced at Estinien for signs of surprise or anger, and was somewhat taken aback when he could find none.

"You mean to finally admit that you walked in on us in Camp Dragonhead," Cen said with a chuckle. Ysayle's lips pursed as she stifled a laugh, watching Alphinaud sputter and turn red. "No, Alphinaud, you are not mistaken."

"My apologies, I didn't think I'd been seen-- I mean, you were otherwise occupied-- " he trailed off, clearing his throat again. "I'd have apologized sooner had I known that you realized."

"Your apology is accepted. Think nothing of it."

"Or think of it every time he gets a spare chance and a place alone-- _ouch_!" Estinien pulled his hand away quickly, shaking the snap of a levin shock off. It was returned to its place only moments later and Cen heaved a sigh, sitting back up from her reclined position.

"What then am I to make of this?" Alphinaud asked, gesturing at their hands.

"You could assume that Estinien's fingers were cold and he wanted for the heat. Or you could extrapolate what you know of him as you have done and realize that there is something more between us."

"But what of Lord Haurchefant?" he asked, clearly confused. "Why have you betrayed him with the Azure Dragoon? He has been nothing but good to us!"

"Aye, lad, he's good to Lord Aymeric and me as well. Mainly in the bedroom," Estinien said plainly, only to smirk as he watched the young Elezen's mind short circuit.

"I-- He-- Wait, what?!"

Ysayle lost the ability to restrain her laughter and all but fell over as she cackled, tears streaming from her eyes. Estinien huffed at her, but was plainly amused at the boy's spluttering.

"How?!" he all but shouted.

"Don't," Cen said as soon as Estinien made to speak. He obediently closed his mouth, mirth painted across the visible portion of his face from under the helm. Cen regarded Alphinaud, who just looked lost at this point. "Think of it like this: each person involved is a musician. It doesn't matter what instrument they play-- _no, Estinien, this is not a euphemism for your bits_ ," she hissed before he could say it.

Ysayle gasped, losing the modicum of control she had regained. 

"They find another person and form a duet," she continued doggedly. "With practice and communication, they each play their parts, supporting each other and making music. More pieces playing just means that there needs to be more coordination and more communication in order to play well."

Alphinaud's face lit beet red in the firelight as he processed what she had said. "The esteemed Warrior of Light is merely the newest piece to join the orchestra," Estinien said with a smirk. "We'd been making music for years before she came along."

Cennova dropped her head into her hands with a groan as Ysayle's laughter echoed over the clearing.


	14. September 15: Ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SORRY SOMEONE IS CUTTING ONIONS

September 15  
Prompt: Ache

The loss of Haurchefant left a yawning, twisting void within all of them. Lucia nearly lost her mind when she saw the Lord Commander leaning heavily on the railing, trying to make his way up the stairs to his office. 

She immediately summoned Cennova, and led Aymeric behind the hall's dividers to rest and wait to be escorted back to Borel Manor, booking no arguments.

"I do not want to see so much as a fiber of blue within these walls, Lord Commander, until the chiurgeons clear you for active duty," she said sternly, though her expression was one of concern and sympathy as she watched Cennova lead him out, ducking under his arm to steady him as they made their way into the streets.

Aymeric was winded from the pain in his ribs, fair gasping as he took the stairs to the bedroom hallway in the Manor.

Naegling found its place on the rack inside his bedroom door as Cen led him to the center of the room beside the canopied bed.

He ducked his head when she reached up to him, his fringe obscuring the icy shock of his eyes, letting Cennova pull the silvered wrap from his neck. She unbuckled and lifted his coat from him without a word, the sweep of the blue and gold fabric dropping unceremoniously over the back of sofa chair. His gauntlet sleeves went next, carefully stripped without disturbing the wrapping around the bruised and burned skin on his wrists where he had pulled at his restraints.

The rest of his armor fell away, and she led him to sit against the bed as she knelt to unfasten his greaves and gently pull his boots from him. The finest chainmaille shirt was pulled from him, and his armored leggings rolled gently down his legs, leaving him in his smalls and form-fit undershirt to reveal pressure wrappings around his chest and bruising and wounds as far as the eye could see.

The undershirt was efficiently replaced with a loose tunic that Estinien had plainly left. Aymeric did not own an article such as this for himself. His eyes remained downcast.

Still wordless, Cen guided him to lay back against plush pillows. When their eyes met again, his brimming with tears, Cen's heart broke all over again.

She stripped off her own gear, leaving it in a heap next to the bed, and slid under the covers to twine herself around him like ivy. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his jawline where she saw no bruise, threading her fingers with her own.

"It aches, Cen," he whispered, and his smooth voice shattered. "Gods, I hurt."

She croaked a sob, having no words for him that her own choked throat would allow her to speak. He buried his face in her hair, clinging, and the salt of their tears mingled.

Estinien would join them that evening, smelling of fire and wind and pain.

Tonight they would mourn. Tomorrow there would be answers written in blood.


	15. September 16: Lucubration

September 16  
Prompt: Lucubration

Cen, true to her academian ways, was a polymath. There were things tucked away in her mind that she had forgotten how she ever learned to begin with: the mating cycles of marid and gestation periods, for instance. Her positional memory was excellent. If she were to see a room once, she could navigate it and locate objects therein sight unseen. Books and writings she could recall with near perfect accuracy, which was always vexing to her fellow scholars at the Sharlayan settlement.

She enjoyed learning in all its myriad forms, but her favorite things to study were people. She especially enjoyed studying the people that were her own. 

Haurchefant, for instance, would follow her with his eyes when she thought she wasn't looking. Each long stride she took into camp, she felt his eyes tracing her footprints, scanning the line of her body to make sure she was whole, hale, and uninjured. Haurchefant somehow always knew when she was going to arrive, although she had yet to figure out how. 

When he met her at the gates, his smile was nearly enough to warm her through to the bone. He would have one of the passing guards take her mount and have it cared for. As for herself, she and her traveling companions were ushered into the intercessory or into the kitchens to warm. 

She learned that he would entertain her companions, but not until after he greeted her properly. Haurchefant made sure to trail behind any companions with Cennova and take the first available opportunity to pull her aside, to duck around a corner, into an alcove and out of sight. His long arms wrapped firmly around her and he merely held her in his embrace; just held, his face buried in her hair as he let himself remember the feel of her. His thrumming heartbeat whispered against her cheek through his armor as he reassured himself that she was really there in his arms again.

There was always a deep note of longing in his countenance when he released her and they continued to their destination.

The chocolate he had brought in, steaming and thick in a wide brimmed porcelain cup that clashed with the general rough decor of Camp Dragonhead, was always dressed with powdered honey almonds and heavy cream -- his own preference in such. The first kiss he gave her was immediately after her first pull of the sweet confection as they stood behind the room divider, hidden from the other eyes in the room. Haurchefant seemed to chase the taste into her mouth, over her tongue, catching her lips and cradling her head in warm hands stripped free of his gauntlets and gloves.

She learned his taste, the feel of him pressed against her lips, and the smell of his skin when she breathed him in. The barest hint of teeth against her bottom lip as he pulled away, the firelight reflecting in his stormcloud eyes as he took the chair next to her and just breathed for a moment. He would ask her, she learned, how her journey had been, and to tell the tale of her travels since the last time she visited, sitting rapt as she spoke, as she ate, as she shared his company.

Cen's traveling pack always mysteriously made its way into his chambers while the rest of her companions' belongings found themselves in the guest quarters down the hallway from the permanent staff at the camp; fine rooms to be sure. Alphinaud seemed to be the only one to suspect, or to care for that matter. His shrewd eyes watched as she left the company of her traveling companions for the evening wearing her casting robes, leaving them to their own devices, and made her way back down to the common hall.

Cen's evening dance routine had become a way to clear and calm her mind in the evening after a day's madness and travel. Since the night that Haurchefant had discovered her dancing in the firelight, she learned that he would await her in the hall where he first saw her, devoid of his customary armor and dressed only in a warm tunic and simple breeches tucked into the softest kidskin boots.

When she shed her casting robes and began her steps, his eyes would darken, pupils blowing wide, and his breath would deepen. She learned that the first time he beheld her lost in dance, he thought his heart had stopped. She learned the clench of his long fingers on the wooden arms of his seat behind the enormous desk would tighten when she did certain moves, certain steps, like he was holding himself back from going to her. That look, she learned, would warm her from within better than any hearth.

The burn of his hands gliding up her sides as she sauntered toward him, the bells at her ankles singing with each step, would be forever engraved in her skin and mind. When she slung a leg over him, settling herself against his lap, the slow intake of breath at the contact would ring in her mind forever, written in ink on the annals of her memory.

Haurchefant's fingertips drifted higher, up over the back of her twisted breastband, pressing her forward so her chest came to be pressed against his own. From her perch, she was the same height as him, his lips and face easily accessible in a way that it wasn't when they stood. She took his lips softly, sweetly, mouthing and catching his bottom lip between her own and running her tongue over it.

She learned the way he shivered beneath her, pressing hard against her belly while his arms tightened. Cen dropped a kiss on the tip of his nose, smiling into his eyes, then kissing her way over a sharp cheekbone, threading her fingers through his hair to push it back to release a hot breath against the shell of his ear. She learned the tell of his shudder, the hair at the back of his neck raising as the chill went through him.

When he rose from the seat, he took her with him, wrapping her legs around his middle to lock at the small of his back. Cen read desperation in the line of his body, pressed as it was against the length of her front, while he took the stairs up to the hallway two at a time and groped blindly for the door to his chambers.

It gave way and he kicked it closed behind him absently as she huffed a soft laugh into his shoulder, licking a wide, slow stripe malms up his long neck to taste him.

"Fury, woman, if you keep that up, my knees will give out," he said breathlessly on a wide smile as he set her onto his bed. His fingers left her skin for only long enough to strip off the tunic and send it flying.

"Best you be lower, then, love. A fall from such heights is bound to hurt."

She reached back up for him, pulling him down against her as he worked to kick off the kidskin boots and her clever fingertips travelled the hills and valleys of the scars on his chest and sides; learning the tales they told of dragonkin and fire and blades and breaks. Her fingertips found the dip at the center of his left forearm, and she slotted the pad of her thumb against it. This, she knew, was the scar that had given him his knighthood; he bore it proudly, for this injury had saved young Francel's life. This injury he gladly bore for his friend. She learned from him the tale of each scar, some worn more proudly than others.

Cen memorized the timbre of his groan in her ear as she arched against him, swirling her hips against his and beheld the banked fire in him when his clever fingers loosed the twisted breastband, unwrapping it from her and baring her to his palpable gaze. The scarves wrapped around her hips quickly followed suit and the noise that she memorized next from him was that of a bone deep ache when he realized that she had forgone her smalls.

Her smile quirked but was quickly erased with a stunned cry as he dipped down to swipe his tongue through her. "Gods," she heard through the white noise in her ears. "Have you been like this all day?" The sound of his fingers pressing into her was obscene, and her eyes rolled back in her head. Air, she needed air.

"Soaking? Yes," she gasped, watching him efficiently kick off his breeches. The long line of him was bare to her sight and she swore she saw him flexing slightly before rejoining her on the bed. She learned the feel of the callouses of his hands as they stroked and plucked at her skin, as the dipped between her legs. She learned the look of hunger and astonished devotion on his face when she shattered, calling for him in pleasure.

Cen memorized the look of overwhelming sensation that she was sure she shared with him as he settled above her once again, pressing into the cradle of her legs and piercing her up to the hilt in one movement. Her breath caught on a gasp and she memorized the sweet stretch of that first deep touch, trembling as her body made way and held his flesh. She didn't realize her eyes were watering, sight unseen, until the back of his fingers brushed away an errant tear.

Cen focused once more, winding her arms under his and holding him as he moved within her, above her, driving both of them to paradise with pleasure roughened cries.

She learned from the words that dripped from his voice unbidden that she was singular, that she was amazing, that he missed her even when he was as close to her as he could be. His soul, writhing behind his eyes while he pressed on, told her that she filled the yawning empty spaces in himself that he could not bear to look at too closely. She learned that she held a piece of his soul within her.

When they laid still within each other's embrace once more, their passion cooling along with the sweat on their skin, their hearts yet pounding, she learned more of his truths by candlelight, and he learned hers.


	16. September 17: Fade

September 17  
Prompt: Fade

Through the Echo, Cen was accustomed to seeing things that others were not. Most often, she assumed that the things dancing behind her eyes were things that weren't really there. At least, not in a way that would allow others to see them, feel them, or be affected in any way by them.

She suspected that her death during the cataclysmic events of the Seventh Umbral Calamity on the blood-drenched fields of the Battle of Carteneau and effectively being forcibly thrown five years into the future had something to do with it. Just a hunch.

Cennova had born the indignity of being overtaken by the Echo, often at the most inconvenient times. Still, she'd handled the burden with stoicism and good humor when possible, at least outwardly, despite the fiery headaches it left her with.

The absolute stillness she felt when Estinien asked her to finish him while he was still able to control Nidhogg, though, cut through any humor she had ever felt. She knew what it was like to be out of control, to have an entity take her over and be naught but a passive observer in your own body, your own life.

No. Enough of holier-than-thou, better-than-thou, bigger-than-thou. Enough of the rage of others dictating who they would be.

Before she realized it, a snarl twisting her face, she had sunk her armored fingers into the eye of Nidhogg at Estinien's forearm and felt the wyrm scream into her mind. Alphinaud, who clearly felt the same, had his own grip on the eye at Estinien's shoulder.

Together, they denied Estinien the fate he requested in desperation. They scratched and tore and tugged, the eyes blasting them with their foul aether.

 **I will not be denied** , the wyrm bellowed in her head.

"Fuck you, you swiving, hateful, foul and miserable shadow," she roared back. " _He is ours and you will give him back._ "

Still the eyes fought. She would have them spitted, roasted, and served with curry so it would burn them further as she ate them, she swore, gritting her teeth.

A sudden shift in aether and a familiar gloved hand atop her own brought a comforting warmth to her side and she could not help but look over.

Haurchefant, rendered in resplendent waves of flowing aether, wearing the armor that she had last seen him in, met her wide and astonished eyes. He gave her a smile that was both heated and heart-rending.

She saw Ysayle with Alphinaud out of the corner of her eyes, but would not tear her gaze from her lover. Together, they tore the eyes from Estinien.

And then, to her distinct horror, the wound from his loss was torn open once more as she was forced to watch Haurchefant fade before her very eyes for the second time.


	17. September 18: Panglossian

September 18  
Prompt: Panglossian

An oddity encountered among her travels was a gentleman. Perhaps she should capitalize that in her head, for reference. He wasn't _a_ gentleman. He was _The_ Gentleman. Hildibrand Helidor Maximilian Manderville, law unto only himself, and perhaps able to be bested only by, terrifyingly, his mother and father. She was completely convinced that the entire family were primals.

Hildibrand traveled the lands, searching only for people to help and for mysteries to solve. He had renounced his _incredibly wealthy_ family's ways and fortune to find himself routinely beaten, zombified, given chase, buried headfirst for extended periods of time after being pile-driven by his father or other odd twists of fate, and launched at ungodly speeds through time and space. By saucepans. Wielded by his mother.

Yet throughout it all, he retained his... absurdly optimistic, cheerful, pleasant but incredibly obtuse countenance. It had bothered her in the beginning. How could such a being exist, seemingly untouched by the anger of everything around him. But it later occurred to her that perhaps, just maybe, he wasn't entirely oblivious. He had, after all, decided to dedicate his life to helping.

Cen had learned to accept who he was and would gladly accompany him if only to witness some of the more ridiculous spots he happened to find himself in. It would not do for the world to lose a man such as Hildibrand when so much else was so dark and angry.

If all he asked for in return was the occasional audience and a rubdown with Salamanderville oil, well... 

She would be ready and willing, she supposed. Truly, it was no hardship to have a well built body groaning under her hands.


	18. September 19: Where the Heart Is

September 19  
Prompt: Where the Heart Is

Cennova knew where her heart was, though it was not in Azys Lla with her body. Part of it was buried at Providence Point. Another part of it was wrapped firmly around Aymeric's own as he recovered in Ishgard, stuck without comfort as two of his lovers fled to pursue the evil that had wrought such destruction.

Estinien kept another piece wedged securely against his own, hoping fervently that it would keep it warm in the immediate aftermath of losing Ysayle, who he was just now beginning to admit to himself that he cared for.

When Cennova left Aymeric's bedside, she felt the conflict within him. He had essentially signed the death warrant of either his blood sire or his lover. While Aymeric justified patricide, Cen was determined to perform it.

The moment that Thordan took the form of the previously fallen King, rendering himself a primal, Cennova knew there was no way around it; no possible peaceful solution to this utter mess. there was no possible way to spare Aymeric the pain of losing someone he once hoped to reason with, to connect with. The Knights Twelve, tempered as they were, would fall to her, or she would fall to them.

Cennova would take distinct satisfaction, though, in ensuring Ser Zephirin knew where his heart was. She would be sure to point it out to him with a subtle blade between his third and fourth ribs.


	19. September 20: Height [random]

September 20  
Prompt: Height [random]

Elezen were supposed to be tall and elegant. Cennova supposed she could pull off the elegant portion of that stereotype, but the tall bit, well... She, a full-grown woman of twenty-and-six summers (plus five years time floating through the lifestream thanks to Louisoix), stood barely half a head taller than the twins.

She didn't expect herself to grow any taller, considering what she was told by the conjurers in Gridania. They suspected that she was some Elezen variant of a Padjal, a condition usually only seen in Hyur. She was collected by the Conjurer's Guild and inducted swiftly before being spirited into Stillglade Fane. She made off in the quiet of one evening when she found that they wouldn't allow her to leave of her own accord.

This didn't matter, though, when she was with her lovers. In bed, the playing field was leveled. Where she didn't clear Aymeric's collarbone when they stood side by side, when she sat astride him, rocking slowly, Cen could lean forward and lock her teeth into the long column of his neck while he gasped.

The press of the long line of Estinien's rangy musculature all down her back as he guided himself in from behind, fitting her against him and holding her there, made her feel as if they were puzzle pieces slotting together; out and in, give and take.

He went still as stone when he was hilted, waiting for long moments for all of them to adjust as they panted.

Taking even one of her lovers was a challenge in the beginning, but her hunger, as it did when her heart got muddled with her mind, outstripped her good sense. Her first time with Haurchefant had left her sore, bruised, and tender through no one's fault but her own; but she had been victorious and regretted precisely nothing. Her friends in the Sharlayan colony had a quip for events such as those that she found herself in: her eyes were bigger than her quim.

Of course, she attempted the same thing the very next evening and was again successful. Mounted travel was rendered out of the question for days thereafter. There were days she regretted not learning more than basic healing skills.

One long arm of Estinien's wrapped upward and crosswise between her breasts, grasping for purchase against her shoulder, his breaths coming harshly against her ruined ear while he cradled her. The fingers of his other hand came to grip the swell of her hip, and Aymeric's own descended upon it, folding and weaving his digits with Estinien's.

As small as she was, their hands covered her entire hip, and when Aymeric's palm came up to her chest where Estinien held her, the entirety of her breast was eclipsed. Estinien ducked low when she shifted to press her belly against Aymeric's abs, arching only her chest as she was compressed. His hungry lips caught Aymeric's mouth over her shoulder on a gasp that she echoed when they shifted inside her.

Her diminutive stature was used to her advantage whenever possible. She pushed a bit, bracing her hands against the bed, and began to move between them, shifting like sand without having to break their kiss. Estinien's whine was swallowed by Aymeric's mouth, and her own cry echoed in her ears when it reverberated against the wall.

Her breath caught in her lungs as they both pressed in at once, meeting her sharp down-thrust, and together they began to ascend to blessed heights.


	20. September 21: Foibles

September 21  
#Prompt: Foibles

Cen loved collecting knowledge. She supposed it was a habit born of growing up in a community of scholars and having the free reign to go where she would as a child. There was always someone to read to her, to lecture her, to teach her things that a young girl ought not know otherwise. She was ravenous for knowledge and hoarded it like precious stones, tucking the bits away in her memory only to pull them out and examine them in the quiet hours and see how the pieces fit together.

She supposed she had been rather precocious for a foundling child, but Q'Reshi, her de-facto guardian, innkeeper for the Sharlayan colony, had encouraged her. Not only did it seem to keep Cennova out of trouble for long enough stretches of time, but Q'Reshi also saw how it engaged the child. She was always regaling her guardian with tales of fancy or explaining aetheric fundamentals, which were happily beyond Q'Reshi, though she listened attentively regardless. 

The habit of learning whenever possible followed Cen into adulthood, and served her well. She learned in Gridania that whatever affected her was something previously unseen. She learned of the ways of the world as she traveled, seeking to return home; and she learned that things can change on a gil when she returned to the Sharlayan colony only to find it abandoned. She learned the ways of men in Ishgard, and that the appearance of any inkling of carnality or hint of draconic association would have someone labelled a heretic. She learned to survive without the assistance of civilization and without the aid of anyone, and she learned to rely on herself.

Her favorite topics, though, were the quirks and foibles of her lovers. 

Estinien, despite his surly countenance, hid a bleeding heart beneath layers of dragoon armor, and a fondness for cats of all things. Behind his anger hid grief, guilt, and loneliness. He wanted to be able to care for something, but lacked the time and stability to do so. This was the sole reason that Aymeric kept a cat in Borel Manor. Estinien had come across the tiny black scraggly beast in the Dravinian Highlands, wet and miserable, and held it in his armor plate until he was able to return to The Pillars to have Aymeric receive it. 

Estinien valued deeds and actions above all, but would shiver deliciously when sweet words of praise and worship were whispered into his ear by one of his lovers. It did not matter which. Those words would be followed up with teeth if it were Aymeric, tongue if it were Haurchefant, or a slow smouldering kiss if it were Cen.

He was most expressive when he was eating and took genuine pleasure in flavors, though no one was willing to point that out to the dragoon for fear he would attempt to hide it. When Cen cooked them a curry, she was astounded to have Estinien going for thirds while Aymeric had been rushing for another pitcher of water.

Cennova's favorite sneaky habit of Aymeric's was his love of blue novels. She had started leaving her own favorites on his nightstand and pretending not to notice the new creases and bends in the pages when she returned. She suspected he got ideas from them.

His own sweet tooth was well-known, but nothing was sweeter to his tongue than his lover's pleasure. He would happily feast for bells, driving his ever-so-willing victim half mad with tongue, teeth, fingers, and toys. Cen was an enthusiastic observer as he methodically took Estinien apart, piece by piece, one glorious night which began with the dragoon bound spread-eagle to the bed. The sounds he extracted from Estinien would echo in her mind forever.

Bells later when Aymeric unlatched the bindings on Estinien's ankles, hiked his legs over broad shoulders, and sunk himself into his wrung out, exhausted, and finely shivering lover, the overwrought whine bordering panic that issued from the trembling dragoon should have had any angels within earshot dropping from the skies as their wings burned away.

"Fury, you feel incredible," he growled into the dragoon's ear as he began slow, deep strokes at Estinien's fractured nod. "I love seeing you wrecked and split open on my cock. The Azure Dragoon lives to serve Ishgard, no?" he breathed, cajoling. Estinien had no words as he clutched at the bindings that yet held his arms.

Aymeric soon motioned Cennova over, unlatching the bindings that held his wrists and lifted Estinien so that she could slip behind him and hold him in the cradle of her thighs while the Knight Commander chased his own pleasure. Estinien turned his head, pillowing his cheek on her breast, his dark and watery eyes seeking her own while her fingers twisted with his. Her other arm cradled the back of his head, soothing as Aymeric turned rougher, nearing his own end after long minutes.

"Please," he whispered, holding Cen's eyes but speaking to no one in particular, his normally smooth voice like shattered glass. "Please kiss me."

Cennova leaned down to mouth at his gasping lips, dragging her lips down his throat when Aymeric leaned further in and stole Estinien's breath from his lungs, stiffening and barking a staccato cry as he finished.

Estinien's next breath was a sob. They cleaned him up with soft cloths and held him tenderly while he shook, stroking and soothing frayed nerves. It was a catharsis, Aymeric explained to her once, that Estinien needed when he asked them to take care of him in such a way. That he needed to be taken out of himself when it all became too much.

Haurchefant's foibles were somehow simpler and more complex simultaneously. He was younger than both Aymeric and Estinien, and as the middle bastard child, unacknowledged, of House Fortemps, it had long been impressed upon him that a Greystone was all that he would ever be; that he was a throwaway child, though his father did not treat him as such. Lord Edmont loved his children, products of indiscretion or not. His late wife did not feel the same way.

His lovers while living in Ishgard in a cheaply-rented space in the Brume were few and far between, each seeming to take their pound of flesh and pint of blood. Most of them never spoke to him outside the bedroom -- always his, never theirs -- unless they required something of him. He was sufficiently entertaining as a tumble, but none would hear of keeping a Greystone. The name was, in itself, a shameful brand.

Working as a silversmith when he was bypassed for knight training, his beautifully-crafted wares were coveted and treasured when he, himself, was left by the wayside like wrapping paper discarded from a gift. Despite this, he was still generous -- to a fault, some may claim.

Long had Haurchefant been proving himself, over and over, to little avail. Still, he held himself proud, meeting the eyes of those who would gainsay him. He greeted strangers as friends, and if he could give them nothing else, he would gift them his smile and kind words.

When finally he managed to save the life of his young friend, Francel de Halleniarte, he earned his knighthood and finally some modicum of respect from his betters.

Cen had startled when he told her this, in precisely those words, as they shared the heat of their cooling skin under layers of blankets and furs in Haurchefant's plush bed. That he had said it so matter-of-factly was what tore at her.

She rolled over in his arms to face him full-on, her eyes level with his even when her bare toes brushed high on his calves. Her hands came to rest, one against his bare chest, the other cupping his cheek.

"Haurche, anyone who would not hear of keeping you, a Greystone, did not know what a treasure they beheld." His eyes widened in the firelight from the hearth, burning yet brightly. "You speak of your betters: there are none. A man such as you has lessers, and far fewer, equals. I pity any who cannot see this, but gladly take advantage of their blindness."

Cen reached beneath the covers to capture his hand which was splayed over the width of her hip, enfolding it between her palms, threading their fingers together, and pressing her lips against the first knuckle of his thumb. She beheld the hitch in his breath when she spoke without moving his hand away, feeling the soft movement of her lips against him.

"I am proud to have you and I would be prouder to keep you, Ishgard be damned. I would have you at my side whence I go, sword and shield to my staves and spells." She offered him a lopsided smile.

Haurchefant's voice was a tight croak when he replied, wrapping her in a crushing hold and clutching her closer. "I could ask for nothing more, my love."

If she felt wetness dampen her shoulder while she held him close in return, she would never tell.


	21. September 22: Argy-bargy

September 22  
Prompt: Argy-bargy

The sound of raised voices in a passionate exchange coming from behind the Rising Stones' entrance could be heard from the bar top in The Seventh Heaven. The barkeep sighed, glancing her way for the third time.

"Lass, that cup is on the house if'n ya get those two to knock it off," he said, busily drying the mug he held. "They've been at it for hours now."

Cen cast a baleful glance at the door, slammed the rest of her drink back, and gave the bartender one last glance. "Pray for me," she asked, then shuffled her way to the door, closing it quickly behind her to keep the ruckus to a minimum.

Urianger and Moenbryda didn't seem to notice her presence. They were at a table off in the common area, a half-dozen books stacked and scattered between them, and Urianger had both hands planted on the table, arched over Moenbryda who was still seated, kicked back, legs crossed and resting on the seat next to her. She startled for a moment to hear the voice he was using; it was the most upset she'd ever heard him.

"Thy understanding of the issue is fundamentally incomplete! What thou suggesteth is not in the realm of possibility, and thy insistence otherwise pains me."

"If you risk nothing, you gain nothing," Moenbryda insisted, leaning further back with a smirk, voice drawling. She caught sight of Cen and brightened. "Mayhap our esteemed classmate could assist in convincing you."

"Twelve, the two of you are loud enough that the Bard in the tavern cannot be heard. I'll hear you out and settle what I can if the two of you quit arguing indoors."

Moenbryda laughed, full bodied. "The Bard has less sense than rhythm. They should have the minstrel play instead. We were not _arguing_ though." Cen raised an eyebrow. "A friendly argy-bargy, no hard feelings," she said on a grin directed at Urianger. He seemed to bristle beneath the hood and goggles. "Urianger, _sit down_. You're hovering like a gargoyle."

He grit his teeth, but did as she asked, the clatter of the chair echoing through the Stones. "Now what was the argument--"

"Disagreement," Moenbryda corrected.

She sighed. Fine. "What was the _disagreement_ over?" Cen pulled up a chair, slinging a leg over it and sat on it backward, folding her hands over the back and leaning her chin on her laced fingers. She could feel Urianger's eyes on her, even through the dark glass he wore.

"Well, our discussion started, as often they do, with aetherical theory, which I will spare you. This discussion slid into practical application of some of that theory."

"Thou wert prying, Moenbryda," Urianger mumbled petulantly.

"Fine, I was prying, but Urianger was so reticent! He's gotten so much worse lately."

"I do not believe thy theory is sound!" he shouted. "I am not reticent, I am cautious."

"To your own detriment."

"Mayhap so, but not in this matter."

"Would it change your mind if I told you I have a prototype?" Moenbryda's eyes glittered, and Urianger stiffened like someone had just stepped on his grave.

"Please cease talking in circles," Cen sighed. "I haven't had enough mead to follow this conversation."

Moenbryda glanced at Cen. "You wish it laid out plainly? Very well. You keep a lover, yes? Despite all your running about and saving the world and whatnot?"

In lieu of an immediate answer, she removed the glamour on the ear cuff that she bore. Moenbryda's expression was stunned, but slipped into pleased all too quickly. "I keep several keeping me," Cen responded, not offering an explanation.

"Permanently, it would seem. That piece is pierced," Moenbryda noted, tilting her head to get a look at it. Urianger was strangely silent.

"Thrice," she confirmed. At that, Urianger's head shot up and she felt his eyes burning.

"All four of you are shared? Gods, the coordination involved must be a study onto itself. The crux of it is that Urianger has not shared his bed since the last time I visited." Urianger went pink beneath the hood. "He refuses to seek a lover. This is unhealthy for him, because he gets too wrapped up in his own head to take care of himself. So I offered a solution, in the form of an aid infused with aether, which he disapproves of."

"What manner of aid?" Moenbryda's grin turned wicked.

"I'm glad _someone_ wants to know." At this, she fished into a pack sitting at her feet and pulled a black silken bag from it, laying it on the table with a weighty thump. "This is the second prototype, which is a gift for Urianger. The first is in my private collection." She slid the item out of the bag and laid it atop.

Melded with a wide flared base, a white glowing crystal in a conical shape beamed softly, smooth and touchable. It was thicker around than her wrist, tapered at the tip and bulging significantly in the center before thinning again near the base.

Cen was fascinated when Moenbryda touched the base and the texture _shifted_ , developing ridges and valleys. Urianger was glowing nearly as brightly as the crystal dildo, his cheeks searingly red.

"It pulses, it vibrates, it moves on its own at a command and can fair lift me airborn when it's active, and it grows wider the more aether is added, you _greedy boy_. It'll fuck you until you forget at least three languages and the conjugates of a fourth." Urianger's breath hitched and released on a whine and he squirmed.

Cen looked at Moenbryda seriously. "If he doesn't want it, he's completely mad. Name your price."

"Twelve take me," he muttered, sliding further down and trying to disappear beneath the table.

"At least twelve," Moenbryda commented with a smirk. "You have lost time to make up for, Urianger."


	22. September 23: Shuffle

September 23  
#Prompt: Shuffle

Cen had taken up temporary residence on the platform overlooking the Bookman's Shelves main floor. She had created a small nook between the storage boxes and wedged herself into the corner to catch some sleep. The fairies had run her ragged and the overabundance of blinding swirling light had left her with a drunken headache though she hadn't touched a drop since her arrival. Should probably correct that, she thought, closing her eyes against the light and nodding off into a light sleep, her grimoire clutched tightly against her chest and her hood casting shade over her face.

The door to the inner chamber closed just loudly enough to rouse her some bells later. The light in the sky was the same as it was before she slept, static and unchanging. Unnerving to one that had tuned her rhythms to the tides and sunsets.

She arched her back, shaking the sleep loose, and peered over the boxes. Urianger was going through a sheaf of loose paper, seemingly searching for something. He found a leather-wrapped journal in the stack, then set a kettle to boil before he took a seat at a partially clear table.

An inky soft-looking cloth was spread over the clear area and he pulled the cards out of the sheath at his belt and began to carefully, expertly, shuffle them. Two cards to the left. Two cards to the right. Two cards crosswise in the middle. And one card drawn face up and set aside to the top. One by one, he flipped the cards, examined them, set them back against the fabric precisely.

Cen hadn't seen this from him before, this specific type of focus. She watched, wondering what the cards were telling him. 

Never one to deny herself her curiosity, she rose and padded down the wooden stairs and pushed the gate at the bottom open. The squeal of metal hinges startled Urianger, who stood quickly, looking vaguely panicked.

"My apologies, my lady. I did not know that thou wert in residence."

"No apologies necessary, Urianger. This is your home that I am crashing."

"Wherefore wert thou in the storage area?" he asked, blinking.

"I was asleep. I wasn't sure when I last slept and felt it catching up to me, so I took a nap."

"The bed below is available."

Is that an invitation, Master Augurelt?" Cen jibed with a quirk of lips and brow just to watch him fluster himself. She was surprised to see a sly smile forming rather than the agitation he showed before when Moenbryda was needling him in her presence. "Thank you anyway," she replied genuinely when it was clear he was not going to answer her question, apparently having decided it was rhetorical.

"Thou art welcome here, in all ways, my lady," he said. Smooth bastard. Cen chuckled.

"Confidence looks good on you, Urianger," Cen said, padding past him to browse the card reading he had done.

"Be assured, it was hard-won," he replied, following her back over. "Wouldst thou care for a reading? The fairies only ever draw the flower and river cards."

"Absolutely, thank you." She took a seat opposite him, touching the dark cloth with her fingertips. It was as smooth and soft as Viera fur. "The last time I had an oracle reading, I was in Ul'dah. It's been a while."

"Very well, my lady." He bundled up the cards again and she watched his fingers edge the cards as he shuffled them. "Place thine hand on mine and we shall cut the stack."

She felt the spark of aether transfer when she touched his skin.


	23. September 24: Beam

September 24  
#Prompt: Beam

Cennova never expected this life. Dragging herself from one conflict to another, fighting for people, against people. The dust and blood from across Aldenard stuck in the soles of her boots, in the pages of her grimoire, in the cracks along her staff; the winds caught her braids and whistled past her blade ears.

She had not the mind for strategy or politics and left that to her betters. Meanwhile, Aymeric -- her lovely _Ser Aymeric_ , the bastard child made of solid gold, was meticulously piecing Ishgard back together through the sheer force of his will. 

Cen often found herself angry at being used, though she knew she would have made the same decisions to fight even if she weren't being asked. Gold piled high in her coffers and weighed down her saddlebags, rewards for her gracious assistance with the initiatives of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. She was their friend, their warrior, their _weapon_ against the dark. Estinien was such a weapon for Ishgard, hell-bent as he was on the utter destruction of the wyrm Nidhogg, who had stolen his young life from him.

With Haurchefant, the parallel was in being a pariah. He was content at his post in Camp Dragonhead, and despite his own history, and managed an easy smile and a hot drink for any in need. But she saw that the comments -- bastard, lowborn, even his lack of family name as a _Graystone_ \-- cut him and left him bleeding.

She near fell into the door at Borel Manor, and was greeted by Haurchefant, as expected this weekend.

"Estinien left something on the bureau for you," Haurchefant said, his eyes soft and fond, after a moment of holding her, loosening her from his grip to go retrieve the gift. "From all of us. He finished with it only yestereve before buggering off to loom wherever it is that he looms during daylight bells."

She fair levitated over to the bureau, finding an ear cuff made of a suspicious black metal, a glimmering chip of blue embedded in the center of the a silver rose made with a delicate hand.

"This is..." she trailed off. The cuff was clearly created from the broken horn piece of his dragoon helm. Aymeric's ear cuff was of the same metal, likely smelted at the same time as the Azure dragoon's armor. The silver rose on this cuff was Haurchefant's insignia, and the chip of Borel blue was of the same cobalt material of which Naegling was created.

This cuff had been created for her. She realized what they were truly asking with the cuff. Ishgardian and Wildwood Elezen custom, to which she was not generally privy, dictated that a cuff that clipped on, one design, was worn by those unaffiliated and free of personal relationships. One of this nature, though, was a sign of a claim. The cuff would pierce through the wearer's ear as a sign of permanence.

They were asking her to be part of their family, small and broken as it was.

She turned back to him with tears in her eyes, holding the piece in her shaking hands, and her trembling grin was a beam of sunlight breaking through the bleak Ishgardian clouds.


	24. September 25: Wish

September 25  
#Prompt: Wish

Q'Reshi had always been fond of the saying, "If wishes were horsebirds, beggars would ride." Cennova had long learned not to expect or hope for things because it had always only ever wrought pain. She was not always successful in matters of hope, though.

Gridania was a rousing failure; one which she would not soon risk again. She disguised her staff as a simple walking stick, and began to make her way to Sharlayan.

When she found the Sharlayan colonies completely abandoned, she was lucky enough to be found by a traveling troupe of dancers. Cen discovered quickly that she had an affinity for the art, and was swiftly as capable of entrancing an audience as she was of gutting a man from afar with her newly-acquired chakrams. The troupe dressed her in scarves the color of a sunset sky and tinkling chains and charms the color of her goldenrod hair. Her gilt horns trailed red streamers, hiding them as well as decorating her further.

She traveled with the troupe for a period of moons before they turned southward toward more hospitable climes as winter approached. She had split with them amicably, but found her journey north much more difficult and icy nights more frequent as she ventured further north.

Cen prided herself on her pragmatism, and was resolved to do the best she could with what she was given. Sometimes, that meant washing dishes at the local inn and eating scraps that lingered. Other times, it meant dancing for her supper; baring her body to gather gil that would get her to the next town or settlement. Then, there would be the nights that she dreaded: finding patrons to pay for room and board and trading the pleasure of her body for a night out of weather that would have killed her otherwise.

She would not wish, for she knew a wish would not alter her circumstances.

Cen had planned to wait out the winter's chill until she could feasibly make her way to the coast with gil sufficient to charter passage to the Sharlayan islands. She found her way into Ishgard and located employment at the Forgotten Knight as a barmaid; a position which included board and a portion of the tips left by customers.

Gibrillont Rivaumaiche, the tender of the Forgotten Knight, had only recently acquired ownership of the establishment, and under some duress, she understood; but he was a fair employer. Cen helped him where she could, as he was still recovering somewhat from a crippling injury sustained by defending a place called the Stone Vigil. She largely kept to herself and performed her duties, and generally was unbothered by the clientele. They were, by and large, here to forget their problems, not add another's burden to their own.

Gibrillont had discovered her nightly ritual completely by accident when he returned after closing the Knight for something that he had forgotten but couldn't rightly remember after seeing Cen. The last of the patrons had been ushered out for the evening, and she was finished her cleaning and prep-work for the next day, thinking that she was alone with the dust motes and the hearth which was burning low. Cen had been feeling down for the last little while, and was dancing to make herself feel less lonely. She stepped and wheeled from table to empty table, straightening and cleaning as she went.

It was her nightly ritual to dance; just to go through the movements and steps. It was like meditation for her, she found.

Gillbront was enchanted, watching her from the upper landing in the Knight as she flitted about elegantly.

Which led to a discussion and cajoling on his part to have her dance for the patrons the next time a bard was about. She was convinced only by the offer to let her keep the entirety of the tips that she made that evening.

Cen found herself wrapped in her sunset sky scarves and chains, a veil across her face and secured to her horns, her hair loose and shining and flowing down her back like a spill of fine clear ale. She was a burning flare of color and an unfettered raucous laugh among the broken gray stones and staunch, haughty, proud, and pinioned stoicism of Ishgard.

She found herself wishing while she adjusted her rings and bands, as she hadn't done since she was a child, that she could bring some hope to the people of this miserably noble place.


	25. September 26: When Pigs Fly

September 26  
Prompt: When Pigs Fly

Cen had left the Sharlayan settlement with only the clothes on her back, the book at her hip, the staff fashioned out of twisted juniper that had grown naturally around a sapphire, and the daggers in her belt.

Her target was Old Gridania and her fuel the hopes that someone there could explain the sleek golden horns protruding from her skull, just above her temples, which had begun to grow in a gentle curve over her head like a crown without explanation. Her aetheric resonance skyrocketed without explanation, and she'd lost control of her magic during practice more than once now. Frankly, it was beginning to frighten her. The stares and whispers which had always been present were now all-encompassing. Conversation ceased when she showed up.

She had heard from the scholars and in reference books in the Gubal Library that there was a sub-race of Hyur called Padjal which shared these characteristics despite the horns being of a different hue. There was no mention of Elezen being afflicted, however. 

Cen was raised as a foundling and none had claimed her. The innkeeper, Q'Reshi, who passed from her life when Cen was twelve, had acted as her de-facto guardian and caretaker until that point. Hence, she had grown to the age of fifteen bouncing between public spaces such as the library until their keepers tired of her and tossed her out on her ear. 

Thus, when she left, it was with no ties holding her to Sharlayan except the worlds she found in books and the space between the shelves and pages, held tight and precious in her memory.

What awaited her in Gridania, though, was something of a waking nightmare. The Wood Wailers snapped her up before she set foot in the city-state and fair dragged her before the Elder Seedseer.

"I have never seen anything like her," Kan-E-Senna said softly, inspecting her horns as she turned Cen's head, hand on her jaw while she snarled, held fast by the Wood Wailer guards. "Her aetheric signature is something like I have never witnessed either. The padjal are connected to nature and the ambient aether, but hers is... I don't know. Elemental?" She drew her hand back sharply when levin snapped at it.

"Unhand me at once," she growled. "I am not here to be treated as a prisoner or a threat. I came here of my own will before these asses snatched me up and dragged me the rest of the way to you. I had thought to come here for help and this is what I am greeted with."

"Release her. Help, you say?" Cen yanked her arm back from the Wood Wailer next to her, still wanting to bite him. Her teeth, oddly sharp for an Elezen, fair itched. She restrained herself.

"I need to be in control of my magick, and I read that this was the place for it, considering these grew in out of nowhere," she indicated her golden crown of horns, "when I came of age. Also, when my second set of teeth came in, these earned me the -- much vaunted -- title of piranha." She drew back her top lip to show elongated lateral incisors, canines, and premolars.

The Seedseer looked unsettled at this, which did not put Cen at ease. "You will be brought to Stillglade Fane for induction and the Padjal elders will train you."

She was grasped bodily and pulled away without another word. They named her Kane-Au-Kiraw. Golden Horn. Creative.

Six months later, it was clear to her that they had no idea what they were doing when it came to her brand of aether control. But the Padjal elders wouldn't let her leave, insisting on attempting to teach her to use her aether for healing. It was not suited.

She resolved to go to Sharlayan itself. It took her another year and a half before she could engineer her own escape.

"When pigs fly," one of her Hyur Padjal classmates had sneered when he got word of her plans. "You're never getting out of here."

She levelled a flat stare at him, her next words measured and matter-of-fact. "There'll be pork in the treetops come morning."

When day broke in Gridania, she was nowhere to be found, having again left with naught but the clothes on her back, her book, her staff, and her daggers. Daybreak found her perched precariously under an airship making its way north, her countenance grim and determined, and bound ultimately for the Sharlayan motherland.


	26. September 27: Sensitivity [random] [placeholder]

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	27. September 28: Irenic

##September 28  
#Prompt: Irenic

Cennova strode quickly down the hallway of the infirmary, the chiurgeons chasing after her and trying to shout softly so as to keep the peace. She pushed open the door to see Aymeric in one of the plain beds, propped up by pillows. His hair was matted and his face drawn; swaddled in blankets as he was, Aymeric looked as young and lost as she'd ever seen him.

"Miss, you must needs leave at once! You are no relation to the Lord Commander and aside that, he needs rest!" the chiurgeon, an incredibly tall Elezen woman with auburn hair and healer's robes chirped softly, insistently, reaching out to catch Cen's arm. Cen quickly snatched it away, approaching Aymeric's bedside.

"Madam, if you lay hands on my person, your colleagues will find themselves with another patient to tend," she shot over her shoulder, crouching on the stool next to Aymeric. The could feel the chiurgeon bristling.

"Maneviè, it's fine," Aymeric said, his voice soft. "I would have her remain here, by your leave."

The chiurgeon, Maneviè, looked unimpressed, but nodded and bowed out, closing the doors behind her but not before shooting Cen one last sour look.

"I'm sorry, Aymeric, I came as soon as I was able," she said, taking his hand in hers when he offered it. His lips quirked in a weak smile.

"You have nothing to apologize for. This is the first day that I was awake at length in any capacity."

"Have they been caring for you sufficiently?" Cen asked. "Is there aught that I can do?"

"Just your presence here is helping. I cannot confess to being a model patient and I appreciate the company. I despise convalescence," he admitted. She snorted.

"Perhaps endeavor not to need it in the future?" she recommended, trying to keep her tone light.

"I'll try not to catch any more stray blades in the street." He saw her face twist. "I'm sorry to have caused you worry, Cen," he said.

"It is my privilege to worry about you, Aymeric," Cen said softly, brushing his fringe back from his forehead, "just as you say it is yours to worry about me." She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against his lips. "You will not be lost to me, nor I to you. Not if I can do aught about it."

"It is our shared irony that what we most want is peace, and we are destined to fight for it."


	28. September 29: Paternal

September 29  
Prompt: Paternal

Cen had never known a nuclear family unit: a mother, a father, siblings, grandparents. Q'Reshi had done the best she could, raising her on her own. She did have the benefit of being raised by the entire village.

She had assembled her family during her travels: she was either found or the foundling, depending on which person she considered.

When Haurchefant put words in for her and her associates with House Fortemps in Ishgard, it rendered her off-kilter. She had suddenly found herself with brothers and a father. Officially. They'd been taken in as wards of House Fortemps. What do you do with a people that adopted you and asked for nothing in payment?

She supposed you would do your best to ensure their generosity was not misplaced; not damaged by her mere presence. She would do what Haurchefant did, and try to make them proud.

Over time, through the hell that was the loss of Haurchefant, through the bliss of regaining Estinien and still having Aymeric, they remained steadfast and supportive. Despite Emmannellain's words to her regarding the possibility of providing heirs to the House, nothing of that nature had ever officially been asked of her.

She watched on as Artoriel officially accepted the mantle of the head of House Fortemps on the steps of the Vault, smiling proudly. When former Count Edmont -- now Lord Edmont -- returned, beaming with pride, he took a seat next to her at the reception table.

"You look as if you have had a weight that was upon you utterly annihilated, _Lord_ Edmont," she said, grinning. "It's looks good on you."

"This is one of the happier days of my life, seeing my son take up the reigns of his House and steer it into the future." He smiled fondly, but a thread of melancholy twined through his countenance. "I miss him."

Cen put her hand on his brocaded arm, squeezing reassuringly, almost more for herself than for him. "I miss him, too." She reached around to the back of her neck to undo her choker and handed it to Lord Edmont.

His brows furrowed to see a small aquamarine stone shot through with gold and red on the inside of the band. His breath suddenly caught in his throat when his skin contacted the stone, and he looked back at Cen, his throat working, though no sound emerged.

"I miss him all the time, but he's always with me," she said softly. "When we were tearing the eyes from Estinien, his shade came to me. His and Ysayle's -- Lady Iceheart. They lent their strength to us -- to Alphinaud and me -- and we were able to save Estinien only because of that. I would have thought him a hallucination if, when he walked away and faded into the aether, I was not left holding this."

She offered a watery smile to the swimming eyes of Lord Edmont as he ran the pad of his thumb once over the stone, closing his eyes and taking a trembling breath. "I believe you," he said in tremulous wonder, handing her back her treasure so she could tie it back into place. "There are more things in heaven and on Eorzea than we can rightly fathom."

She looked away, back at Aymeric who was on the platform with Artoriel. "He came to me once," Edmont began quietly. "After we had taken you on as wards. He sat me down and asked me something that I never expected to hear, least of all from him. I was well aware of his proclivities," Edmont said, looking at Cen out of the corner of his eye, then up at Aymeric who caught the stare and offered a smile of his own. The look on his face was without judgement when he commented, "Just as I have suspicions about your own."

Cen merely nodded, accepting the truth of his proclaimed suspicions. She would not belittle or deny those which she held dear.

"He came to me seriously, which was unlike him. Haurchefant spoke at length about you, about how he met you, the deeds and good you did. Not the deeds you did for Eorzea, but the ones you did for him. I saw that he was as a man reborn. It was the same look that I had about myself once upon a time, which resulted in my second son's birth," he said with some humor. "I was not able to acknowledge him as my own, officially, but he knew I claimed him proudly. He ceased trying to impress me once he'd met you, and instead endeavored to live up to you in his words and deeds. To impress you, and make himself worthy in your eyes."

"He did all that and more," she said, her eyes streaming now.

"Haurchefant asked me to grant my blessings allow you to wed and bond, as you are the ward of House Fortemps. It was a blessing I granted gladly. I am so sorry that he never saw that day."

Cen grinned wryly through her tears, and a choked laugh escaped her. She turned to Edmont, who was nonplussed. "I have a confession to make, Lord Edmont," Cen said softly. She carefully flipped up the wide hood on her casting robes to shield her secret from public view, turning her head slightly inside it. The glamour dropped off of the cuff revealed to be affixed to her ruined ear and the look on Edmont's face was a sight to behold when he realized the implications of the vision before him.

The rose of delicately wrought silver curled around a shard of Borel blue and caught the light where it beamed past the hood, gleaming against the backdrop of black dragoon-armor metal. The piece was pierced through, rendering it permanent. "When I told Emmannellain that there was only one son of the Four High Houses of Ishgard that I would consider wedding, I left out that I'd already done it."

"You were bound--!" he started but cut himself off, voice going soft and eyes going wide, brimming with with tears. "You were bound to Haurchefant in the old way! My daughter," he breathed, and his arms went around her, drawing her close and holding her, laughing with joyful tears.

"We planned to let you know as soon as the blasted war had finished and the four of us were together to be able to do so, but--"

He shook his head, stroking her arm gently as he pulled back to look at her. "Four of you?" he blinked and she grinned, lopsided.

"This cuff is thrice pierced. You have two additional sons as well, father."


	29. September 30: Splinter

September 30  
Prompt: Splinter

Cen was shoulder to shoulder with her fellow warriors on the field of Carteneau, laying waste to Garlean forces as they advanced. She was exhausted, dragging, but still casting. The broken remains of an arror were still lodged firmly in her shoulder, sending screaming pain through her with each movement.

Her fellow Bard felled the shooter mere moments after Cen was hit. The healer pumped aether into her to get her back on her feet and dull the pain, but it wasn't working so well.

The fight seemed to go on forever. As soon as she felled one magitek armor, it seemed like three more took its place. Louisoix's plan had better bear fruit, she thought. Her job was to hold the line as long as possible to give the Circle of Knowing time to do their parts.

Then, Dalamud fractured, sending shards of Allagan metal careening toward Eorzea.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

Cen was knocked away by a massive explosion, courtesy of the hell-sent horror above her in the shape of Bahamut. When she roused with a searing pain across the side of her head, half buried in the dead and dying bodies of her comrades and her enemies alike, she looked up with her remaining eye, face streaming with gore.

The red sky greeted her as she stubbornly pulled herself upright, gripping her staff which somehow survived as well. The horn on the damaged side of her head was splintered and broken, her ear a mangled mess.

The aetheric wind whipped around her, and the last thing she saw was a blinding white light as Louisoix hurled her and her fellow warriors into the aetherflow.

**Author's Note:**

> Come join the lovely folks at Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club.
> 
> This is their fault :)
> 
> https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic


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